


(Homo)geneity

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Compersion, Dom Sam Wilson, Dom/sub, Humor, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow - Freeform, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Bars, Recovery, Sub Steve Rogers, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Sam, acespectrum!Bucky, intersex steve, queer shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a “didn’t your momma raise you better” snark on the tip of his tongue when Steve drops another corn flake.  And <i>steps</i> on it.  </p><p>“Clean that up,” Sam snaps, the command flowing too easily to examine before it’s out of his mouth.  He points at the ground, raises his eyebrows.  </p><p>Steve, the bastard, actually <i>smiles</i>.  “Yessir,” he says, and slowly bends over to retrieve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosawyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/gifts).



> For Anonymous, who requested intersex!Steve and trans!Sam "hook up to everybody's great satisfaction," and Rosawyn, who requested a Steve who is used to getting Dommed when he misbehaves, and tries that tactic on a confused Sam.

Steve drops his goddamn cereal flakes on Sam’s nice, clean floor for about the fifth time this week. The floor still smells like orange cleaner and everything, glistening with the sheen of newly protected hardwood. Sam has a “didn’t your momma raise you better” snark on the tip of his tongue when Steve drops another flake. And _steps_ on it. 

“Clean that up,” Sam snaps, the command flowing too easily to examine before it’s out of his mouth. He points at the ground, raises his eyebrows. 

Steve, the bastard, actually _smiles_. “Yessir,” he says, and bends over to retrieve the cornflakes. 

Which gives Sam a fantastic view of That Ass. Really, unparalleled. He’s been blessed with appearances of That Ass since Steve moved into his apartment a few months back, and shared hotel rooms during the great ghost hunt road trip of 2014. 

Of course, when they came back, Bucky was already there, asking when they were going to re-stock the popcorn. He’d been watching a lot of reality tv. Steve yelled at him. Everything was relatively ok.

Steve is really taking his time picking up those corn flakes, Sam realizes after about a full minute. Steve finally, painstakingly slowly, bends straight up from the waist and looks at Sam over his shoulder. Sam makes a little noise in his throat.

Steve carries the cornflake bits to the trash can, then grabs the dust pan. Instead of kneeling down like any sane person should, he bends over, the tip of the brush touching the floor. 

Sam is about to comment on it when Steve straight up gives his ass a little wiggle. 

Suddenly, the gears in Sam’s head click, turn, and start spinning wildly. _Oh my god_ , he thinks, _holy shit_.

“Are you flirting with me?” Sam asks. It comes out higher pitched than he would have liked. 

“Hmm?” Steve asks, standing up, face the picture of innocence. That little shit. He could have heard that question from three rooms over and he sure as hell heard it with Sam standing a foot away.

“You’re _flirting_ with me!” Sam nearly shouts, voice jumping another octave. It isn’t his smoothest moment. 

“Would that be a problem?” Steve asks casually, shaking the dust pan into the trash can. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at Sam through his ridiculously long lashes. He licks his lips. They’re really nice lips. 

“What about J.B.?” Sam asks, trying to regain his chill. 

“What about him?” Bucky asks from behind Sam, his tone utterly devoid of inflection. He has a spoon in his mouth. He’s already gotten the ice cream from the fridge, somehow. 

“Oh my god,” Sam bends over and wheezes. He's had a stressful few months, and every man has his limits. “Cat bell,” Sam manages. “We need, to get you, a cat bell.” 

Steve and Bucky, mercifully, give him a minute. They’re doing that thing where they communicate silently over his head with their eyes, he can feel it. 

When Sam is standing again, Bucky has already sprawled on the couch. Sam thinks that isn’t a bad idea. He finds his favorite chair, and has a good sit. 

Damn it. It's finally time for The Conversation. It's his least favorite conversation. He normally does his best to avoid it, though he knows there’s really no other way to answer Steve without brushing him off. He doesn’t want to do that. 

“Ok,” Sam starts. “Ok.”

Steve blinks at him, then shoves Bucky’s feet over so he can join him on the couch. Bucky barely moves to accommodate him, and continues watching Sam from his peripheral vision, which is unnerving. 

“You’re, really attractive,” Sam manages. “I like you, as a friend. You’re, I like, being around you.” 

“But,” Steve supplies. Bucky shovels a particularly large scoop of ice cream into his mouth. He never gets his food anywhere on Sam’s furniture, for reasons Sam doesn’t want to think about too much. 

Sam winces. “There are some things about me, that you don’t know. You might change your mind.”

“I already know,” Steve says, calmly, clearly. Both of his feet are on the ground, his hands on his knees. 

Sam feels his heart kick up, adrenaline hiking like a stab to the gut. Steve sounds so sure of himself, of what Sam's about to say. “What.” 

"Your gender," Steve says gently, something unreadable in his expression. "I know." 

Shit. How long? What did he- he tries to pull himself together, heart beating too fast, yelling danger. “You’ve seen me shirtless. The scars-“

Steve shakes his head. “You can barely see ‘em. Covered by chest hair anyway.” 

“Did you pull my file, figure it out?” Sam asks, getting angry now. 

Steve holds up his hands. “No,” he says clearly. “I know because I am too.” 

“You’re not,” Sam bites out, because now he feels like he’s being mocked. They haven’t seen each other completely naked, sure, which is a little weird at this point, but not too strange. Sam had mostly chalked it up to his habit of extreme paranoia. He knows he hasn’t let on with anything Steve might question. _It’d be too dangerous_ , he thinks, in this back of his mind. 

Bucky turns to look at him. “He is. ‘S like a Sixth Sense. He sees trans people.” He pulls his lips back from his teeth in the scariest goddamn smile Sam has ever seen, enjoying his joke. 

“You watch too much cable, Barnes,” Sam says automatically. 

Bucky shrugs, and recaps the pint of ice cream he’s finished. He places it on the coffee table, and balances the spoon delicately on the lid. 

“I was intersex,” Steve says. “The serum… helped.” 

“Like a lifetime of testosterone in thirty seconds,” Bucky adds helpfully. 

“That… is not in your biography,” Sam says slowly. “Any of them.” 

“It’s not,” Steve confirms, and he looks like the same way Sam has felt for most of his life. This is real. Steve isn’t fucking with him. The look is unfamiliar on his face, but Sam has seen it once or twice when he thought Hydra had recaptured Bucky. Steve’s nervous, trying to trust him.

“Oh,” Sam says eloquently. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.” I’ve spent so long hiding I don’t know how to not. Letting anyone get close means putting my job in jeopardy. I don’t know how be safe when I’m not on my own. 

Steve shrugs, gives him a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not either,” he admits. “I mostly wait until people come to me.”

Sam points to Bucky. 

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “USO girls, though I didn’t, uh, have to take my clothes off. Peggy.” 

“You have a type,” Sam points out, and Steve ducks and laughs. 

“Shoulda seen him with both of us,” Bucky adds. “Me and Peggy, together. Thought he’d have a stroke.” 

Sam’s seeing another pattern, here. “I’m not another girl for you to share,” he says stiffly, which is maybe not the best way of putting it, but he has to be sure. 

“Peggy wasn't 'shared' with anyone. And you’re a man,” Steve replies, jaw jutting out stubbornly. His brow furrows. “Unless, you’re one of the non-binary genders?” 

Steve Rogers is talking about non-binary genders in his very living room. “Uh, no. I’m not.” 

“I am,” Bucky interjects suddenly. Sam had almost forgotten he was there; he has this way of barely breathing, much less moving. Steve’s head whips around sharply, assessing him. 

“Don’t think I used to be,” Bucky allows, and Steve looks at him for a long moment, then nods. “It’s not the gender,” Bucky adds. “It’s that thing you’ve got. Confidence. Plus you’re a good person. Makes Stevie want you to plow him like a cornfield.” 

Steve blushes bright red and glowers at Bucky, which is. It’s adorable. 

“I can see the appeal,” Sam manages.

Bucky nods, like this is the only obvious answer. 

“You’ve never even been near a cornfield,” Steve sighs. 

“Yes, I have,” Bucky’s eyes squint. “Europe? Somewhere.”

“Probably France,” Steve allows. 

“I’ve been lots of places,” Bucky adds sagely. 

“We know,” Sam says wearily. They’d tracked him to the Balkans before Bucky gave them the slip, once. 

Steve looks over with his golden retriever eyes. 

They're quiet for a long time, staring at each other. Bucky sighs loudly. 

“Steve doesn't wanna lose your friendship,” Bucky informs Sam. Steve tries to dislodge Bucky, and Bucky kicks him in retaliation. "But you’ve been staring at his ass, so I told him to stop worrying so much and get on it-oof!” Steve has managed to get Bucky on the ground, and Bucky is glaring at him, which is frankly terrifying. Bucky hooks Steve with a leg and an arm, and dumps him on the ground with him. Steve puts his foot in Bucky's face, wiggles his toes. “The only way he knows how to flirt is to piss someone off," Bucky informs Sam, while watching Steve. 

“Uh huh,” Sam replies, seeing it. 

“It works,” Steve defends, a little petulantly, and Bucky holds up a hand. Steve, miraculously, is quiet. 

“He’s also never gotten to know someone like him before,” Bucky adds, “though I don’t know why the hell not, there’re about a dozen queer bars in this city.” 

Sam softens a bit, at that. He knows what it feels like to be alone like that, the comfort of finally being with people like you. To be completely unexceptional in a group. Even if most of them are white as sour cream. 

“That true?” Sam asks, settling into his chair, leaning forward. 

Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky. “I have the internet,” he rebuts dryly. 

“Huh,” Bucky considers. “Wonder what Stark thinks of your porn.” 

“He doesn’t,” Steve says defensively, crossing his arms. 

“He does,” Bucky crows, “you know he’s-“

Sam coughs, and both of them shut up, turn to look at him. “You have to let me take you on a date, first,” he says. 

The corners of Bucky’s mouth are twitching. Steve looks over at him helplessly. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, still looking at Bucky. “Yeah, of course.” 

“I’m picking the place,” Sam says decisively. “And your clothes. Barnes, you in?” 

Bucky smirks, grabs Steve's foot to move it out of his line of sight. “Hell yes. Wouldn't miss it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next Steve goes to a gay bar, gay bar
> 
> Fun Facts 4 u:
> 
> Transgender people serve in the US Military at nearly double the rate of the general population; put another way, about 1 in 5 transgender people serve in the US Military during their lives (Williams Institute)
> 
> The VA is one of the few federal institutions that collects information on gender identity, and began doing so before they collected information on sexual orientation.


	2. Steve

A week later, there are clothes laid out on his bed, a t-shirt and jeans. Steve feels like a warm cup of coffee, smiles when he touches them, then looks around to see if anyone witnessed him. 

“Now?” Steve yells.

Bucky comes out of the bathroom, wincing. “Ow,” he complains, rubbing his ears.

“You shoot guns without earplugs,” Steve points out. “You stand a few feet away from explosions.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky frowns, “but I’m ready for those.” He gestures at the clothes, pulls at his half-dry hair, frizzing from the roots out. “Now,” he confirms. Then he goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. 

When Bucky finally re-emerges his hair is glossy and straight, and he’s wearing a pair of black jeans he looks like he was dipped into. 

Steve swallows. Bucky smirks, slaps Steve’s ass as he walks past. “Don’t shave,” Bucky tells him, and Steve makes a grumpy noise. 

“You’re recognizable enough,” Bucky points out. 

“No one recognizes me when I’m not in spandex,” Steve grouses. 

Bucky stares at him. 

“Fine,” Steve grunts. Bucky roots around in his drawer and pulls out a black leather glove. 

“Michael Jackson,” Bucky says, pulling it on with a flourish. 

“Ok,” Steve says, stripping down to his underwear. The jeans are comfortable enough, and he knows immediately that it’s Sam who picked out the clothes. When he’s got the shirt over his head, Bucky’s right there. He leans up and presses his lips to Steve’s, and just as Steve starts to melt into Bucky’s warm, calloused fingers cupping his jaw, Bucky disappears. 

Steve stands there a minute, a little turned on and miffed, but mostly warmed. That doesn’t happen very often anymore; it’s only Steve that Bucky touches, but always infrequently, platonically, and on his own terms. Steve’s overjoyed by Bucky just being here, for having his moments of happiness and clarity. He’s grateful for whatever Bucky gives him. He’s selfish enough to want more. 

It takes a bus and two cab switches for Bucky to be reasonably confident they’ll be left alone. Steve has been trying to track where they are, but he honestly has no idea, and at this point he’s just along for the ride. 

When they finally get out of the cab and cross over three blocks (and back two, forward three), they end up at a nightclub with a drag queen in an elaborate nun’s outfit greeting them at the door. The getup’s different from it was in the 40’s, but Steve’s spent some quality time with Google getting his terminology right. 

“Ma’am,” Steve says to her, and she breaks into a broad smile. 

“Hey gorgeous,” she greets Steve, and gives Sam a pat on the shoulder. “Haven’t seen you here for a while, baby.” 

Sam catches her hand as it retreats and gives it a quick kiss, flutters his lashes at her with one of his smiles that makes Steve feel immediately at ease. 

She chuckles, deep and amused, and waves them in. “Donations on the table!” she calls out. 

There’s a plastic table set up with a banner written in marker that says “Trans is Beautiful,” and a jar with some cash already in it. A person with an undercut looks up from their cellphone at their approach and smiles. 

“Donations for the suicide hotline,” they say cheerfully, and Sam puts some cash in the jar. Bucky follows, and Steve drops a five and smiles awkwardly. The person freezes, staring, and Steve winces. 

Slowly, the person draws a zipper over their lips and telegraphs putting their phone away. “You have a nice night,” they drawl casually, shaking down the jar. “Oh, and Sam,” they look over, “Blue wants to talk to you.”

Sam smiles apologetically at Steve and Bucky. “Sorry, there are like, eleven of us. We all know each other.” He leans in to give Steve a kiss on the temple, making him blush, then disappears. 

The place isn’t crowded, but it’s dimly lit with a variety of colored string lights, and there are enough people moving in and out of the shadows to make the place feel full. There are clearly a number of what Sam would say were queer people here, and several others who look exceptionally ordinary, like they just came from their blue collar jobs. 

Bucky is smiling, one of his real, smaller smiles. Steve feels. Overwhelmed. 

“C’mon,” Bucky says, tugging Steve towards the sparsely populated dance floor, and Steve plants his feet like the stubborn cuss he is. 

“I-I’m gonna, just,” Steve pulls away towards the bar, and Bucky shrugs, goes on without him. Of course Bucky is the one skipping over to the dance floor, despite everything, and Steve is over at the bar. Where he can’t even get tipsy. 

Steve could freak the bartender out and down a couple dozen shots, but he kind of likes being incognito over in the dark corner with his beer, watching. He feels anxious for these people, clustered together, relaxed and happy. Anyone could come through that door, police, religious zealot… he’s drained the glass before he realizes, and pretends to sip it some more anyway. The smell calms him a little, somehow. 

He watches Bucky trying to learn the steps of whatever’s going on, mostly grinding. He’s awkward for about five minutes before he’s got it like he’s been doing it all his life, herding a shy woman in a blue dress to the floor for a couple songs, smiling behind her hand. Steve chuckles and shakes his head. Bucky backs off, watches when a young black man comes in, down low to the floor, twirling his wrists and dropping in a feint only to come back up again. Bucky’s attention is completely fixed; Steve hasn’t seen him so engrossed by anything that didn’t involve a rifle in a long time. 

“Hey,” someone says next to Steve, and Steve looks over sharply, startled into the moment. There’s a young man sitting next to him who looks about 15; he’s skinny, wrists small enough for Steve to wrap his fingers around them twice, neck delicate looking. He’s wearing a sweater even in the warm club, and Steve feels a pang when he realizes why he looks so familiar, why he can’t stop staring at him. 

He looks like Steve did when he was younger, if Steve had a washed olive skin tone. When there was no man who looked like Steve, and Steve wished more than anything to be invisible, boring. 

When the kid turns there’s a flash of gold eyeliner that Steve nearly misses in the lighting. 

“I like, your,” Steve points, and the kid makes a humming noise. 

“Have you seen The Hunger Games?”

Steve starts to shake his head, but remembers. “Oh yeah,” he replies, thinking quick, “my friend, James, he had it on the other day.” They don’t use Bucky’s name in public; too uncommon. There are always plenty of Jameses in the world.

The kid follows Steve’s gaze to see Bucky on the dance floor. “’S a great movie, but there was some shit they got wrong.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve says, amused. 

The kid nods, matter of fact. “Gender non-conforming people as the amoral bourgeoisie versus the good upstanding folk of what’s obviously supposed to be,” he waves his hand, “Appalachia.” He pronounces it ah-pul-at-cha. “The queer male as the decadent villain. It’s an old trope.”

“You’ve got an axe to grind, huh?” Steve asks, and the kid bristles. 

“Scar, from The Lion King. Silence of the Lambs, mm, trans woman? Jafar, Shere Khan. In, um Tron. And,” he points at nothing, frowning. “And in James Bond.” 

Steve has no idea what that means. “Are you from, um, Appalachia?” He botches the pronunciation. 

The kid nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice going deep. “Well, nevermind.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Your friend looks over at you whenever you look away. He wants to dance with you too. Are you worried?”

“Am I worried?” Steve repeats, brow furrowed. 

“About him. You keep looking like you wanna run out of here, but I don’t think it’s because you’re transphobic. You’re scared something bad will happen. It won’t. No one gives a shit.” 

“Uh,” Steve stutters. 

“Sorry,” the kid shakes his head, “sorry, I’m a little,” he winces. “Drunk, yeah, but I’m just salty in general. Do you ever feel dysphoric?” 

Steve is getting whiplash. “Not anymore,” he says, and the kid hums. 

“So you wanted to be Erskine’s Ideal Man?” 

Steve winces. “Am I that obvious?”

“Nah, sorry,” the kid says, rolling a glass between his hands. He’s clearly legal, despite how young he looks. Steve remembers what that was like. “It’s just. I mean, you’re probably the closest a cis person comes to understanding. You don’t owe me anything about your life just ‘cause I’m curious.”

“I was sick,” Steve says honestly, after looking at him for a long moment. He feels like there’s a reason this kid is asking, and he wants to give him the answer he’s looking for, even if he’s not gonna tell the whole truth. “And then I could breathe, and run, and not get headaches, or pneumonia. I used to hurt, all the time.” 

The kid nods. “Me too.” He laughs. “But I’m not hoping Erskine will make me the ideal man.” 

“You’re fuckin’ nosy,” Steve shakes his head, and gives the kid a flick on the shoulder. “I dunno, it was just- a tool, you know? I could be useful.” 

“Worth something,” the kid says, and that stings. He isn’t wrong. 

“I do miss it, sometimes,” Steve says abruptly. “Never thought I would. Being smaller. Wasn’t so bad all the time.” He’s watching Bucky’s fingers flick, trying to remember the movements of the person voguing on the floor. Remembers when Bucky used to touch him, not shy away like Steve might hurt him. 

The kid nods. “You should dance,” he says. 

Steve looks at him. “You should too.” 

The kid snorts. “My hips hurt,” he says, kicks his feet where they’re about a foot off the ground. 

Steve stands up, and sees Bucky watching him from his peripheral vision. “Hey,” he says, getting the kid to look at him. “You’re worth something. You are.” 

The kid blinks fast, looks away. “Aw, shucks, you say that to all the boys?” he says, trying to play it off. 

Steve feels something he hasn’t felt since he used to hang around the Everard Baths, but it’s natural to him. He leans over and kisses the kid on the forehead, telegraphing the movement beforehand. “Only the pretty ones,” he says with a half smile.

The kid laughs, short, and waves him away. “Don’t be scared,” he says. “If I can roll with the punches, you can. Life is short.” 

Steve gives him a mock salute; each time, he enjoys how it breaks regulation. The kid rolls his eyes. 

Bucky’s hanging away from the emptying floor when Steve comes over. 

“Make a friend?” Bucky asks casually. 

“Think I did,” Steve replies. The kid has moved away, maybe left. Like he was never there. “You seen Sam at all?” 

“Nah,” Bucky says. The music changes, now that the floor has mostly cleared. Something with a trumpet starts up, big band, and Steve looks at Bucky. Bucky just shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. 

He recognizes it almost instantly; the last time he played the record, Nick Fury was shot through his apartment wall. He loved this song. He’d listened to the lyrics when he had a table with a single chair, an apartment full of relics, had it downloaded on an Ipod for lonely subway rides. When he’d lost Bucky just days and years ago; _It’s Been a Long, Long Time._

Bucky extends a hand, and Steve looks at him. 

“I know I taught you how to do this,” Bucky says expectantly, and Steve takes his hand. He’s a little clumsy trying to pick it up, follow Bucky’s lead. Still, they have a few admirers who clap, and other couples make their way in. 

He’d dreamed about this, sometimes. With Peggy, certainly, because his heart had enough love for both of them. She’d wear something stunning, and Bucky would make sure he didn’t make a fool of himself, and they’d walk into the Stork Club with the war over and everyone’s eyes on Peggy. He’d be in an apartment where the tub wasn’t his kitchen table, enough room to dance, draw the curtains and sway in Bucky’s arms, the only place he could feel small again. 

He never quite imagined it could be like this; there were queer bars, sure, but Steve was always careful. The repercussions for a guy like him were much worse than even most gay men of his time. And the bars were always getting raided. They’d go in with lesbians to be safe, just come in to have a drink, pick someone up. Know they weren’t alone. 

Here they are dancing in the middle of the floor with other couples around them, strangers looking on with smiles, and Steve feels abruptly overwhelmed. Bucky draws him in to sway together, and when Steve breathes in he smells like himself, feels big enough to envelop Steve in his arms. Steve ducks to hide his face. 

“Shh,” Bucky says quietly into his ear. His hand runs down Steve’s spine to settle gently on his lower back. “I’m right here.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. He wants to be close to Bucky like this all the time, never be far enough away where he can’t touch, hold his hand. When Bucky was gone for a few weeks it felt like months, more. “I didn’t mind as much, what I was. Not when you were there.” 

“Shh,” Bucky says, and Steve closes his eyes and sways, follows him. 

Eventually, the song ends, and Steve opens his eyes to see Sam looking at him, something soft in his eyes. Bucky steps away, lets Sam move forward. 

“Hey baby,” Sam says, low, and Steve shivers. “Can I kiss you?”

Steve nods, tilts his head, and Sam cups his jaw, leans in. It’s not a press of lips; it’s a deep kiss, fucking with his tongue. Steve melts, lets Sam hold him. It feels good to be passed between them in this way, for reasons he can’t completely describe. He’s in that good place where he’s warm, floating, trusting. Rumlow put him here sometimes, but it wasn’t- it wasn’t right. 

“You wanna go home?” Sam asks, and Steve nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how I feel about incorporating Real People, but Blue here in my mind is Blue Montana, who is on the board of TransLifeline and was discharged from the Marines under DADT


	3. Steve

Sam’s got a hand on his back, leading. Steve moves carefully to keep the point of contact, doesn’t want to feel unmoored. He hates it more than anything, being alone. He needs to be selfish; he can’t stop following that gentle touch. 

“He usually go under this fast?” Sam asks, and Steve knows he’s not talking to him. He goes blank, lets the conversation filter through but doesn’t engage. Like how his phone waits for him to say ‘Siri,’ he thinks, smiling to himself. 

“Not that I remember,” Bucky’s voice washes over him, low and mellow. “Used to be hard to do. That one time after Azzano, maybe.” 

Oh, they’re getting into a cab. Steve steps in dutifully, sits between them. The cab driver gets their address, then pulls the partition, turns up the radio. 

Steve leans against Sam, and Sam runs his fingers through his hair. Steve makes a small noise, tilts his head so Sam can scritch the short hairs at the base of his neck. 

“Hey pookie,” Sam says, amused. 

Steve lets his eyes lid, tuning them out again. 

“Aw, lookit that. He’s marshmallow fluff.” 

“Until he’s not,” Bucky says ominously. “He can be the most stubborn, bossy little shit when he’s in the mood.” 

“He’s not giving me a smart ass masochist vibe.”

“He’s not,” Bucky says quickly. “Well, sometimes, a little.” He pauses. “I think he just wanted to be hurt.” 

“You do it?” Sam asks, neutral. 

“Depended,” Bucky admits. “Never as much as he wanted. Nothing degrading. That woulda bad hurt him, not that he would've told me.” 

“Hm,” Sam reflects, running his fingers down the sides of Steve’s neck. Steve wants to whine, but he’s being good, thinks they’ll be home soon. “Then Rumlow,” Sam notes. Steve jolts a little, surfaces at the name. 

“’S fine,” he complains. “Buck acts like I didn’t have a foot and a hundred pounds on ‘im.” 

“Hmm,” Sam says ominously. He pauses for a long few moments. “What’s your safeword?”

Steve makes a “pfft” noise with his lips. 

"Hmmm," Sam repeats with a frown. "How about just saying no, or stop, or you wanna do something else?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Steve says, no filter. 

“We're gonna work on that,” Sam replies, but resumes petting him. 

_This is nice_ , Steve thinks, and checks out for the rest of the ride, Sam and Bucky’s voices low murmurs above him. Sam’s hands grounding him, Bucky’s warm presence at his side. He’s glad he’s under enough to not worry about how selfish he’s being. 

Steve gets pulled from the warm, safe place he’s floating in by a brief sharp pressure at the base of his skull. He goes focused, alert, the arousal turning to something sharper- and isn’t that a thought, that Sam can hurt him with just his fingers. He feels his dick twitch. They’re getting out of the cab, Steve leaning like he’s drunk. Isn’t that funny. 

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve smiles. 

“Ok pookie,” Sam pats him on the back, nudges him forward. 

Sam’s fingers are around his wrist on the elevator ride up, through their apartment door. Steve stands in the middle of the floor, waits. 

Sam comes up to him, tucks his thumbs under Steve’s shirt to glide over his hipbones. Steve feels his breath catch. 

“What do you want, hm?” Sam asks him, low, but with a warm smile. “What’ve you been asking me for?” 

Steve just stares at him, tilts his neck to the side in what he hopes is a helpful way. When Sam moves in to kiss his neck, Steve whines. His ears pick up on the few seconds when Bucky’s breathing stops, then resumes. 

Sam’s hands are making their way up under Steve’s shirt, fingers brushing past his nipples, and he jerks, flooded by sensation. He can’t remember getting this much touch. He needs more. 

“Please,” Steve begs, and Sam smiles, dips one hand down beneath the zipper on his jeans. The friction over his dick makes him gasp, his hands automatically going to grip Sam’s shoulders to steady himself. Sam immediately goes back to kissing Steve’s neck, and he’s surrounded by the warm, familiar smell of him, feels Sam’s fingers dip between his legs. 

“Oh god,” Steve hears his voice break, “please fuck me.” He isn’t thinking when he says it, and some part of his brain rings an alarm- did he just fuck up? Is Sam offended?

“ _Hell_ yes,” Sam growls, biting his neck hard enough to make Steve yelp. He’s hypersensitive right now, every nerve vibrating. 

Sam pulls back suddenly, and Steve is disoriented for a moment until he realizes Sam is going to the bedroom, and he wants Steve to follow him. Steve doesn’t process passing Bucky, quiet and still, until a moment later when Bucky has ended up in one of the chairs in the bedroom. 

There are fingers grabbing at the hem of his t-shirt, and Steve processes Sam's “up” in enough time to lift his arms so Sam can pull the shirt over his head. Steve feels it ruffle his hair, and Sam looks at him fondly, ruffles it up a bit more. 

Sam’s shirt is already off when he works to undo Steve’s fly, and Steve wants to cry with how good it feels to have another body pressed against his, to have this much skin contact. 

When Steve’s standing nude in the middle of their floor, Sam runs a hand over his stomach, stops to kiss for a moment. Steve works the button open on Sam’s fly, tugs at his jeans, and Sam lets him. 

They’re mirrored, like Steve knew they would be, except Steve’s so goddamn happy and excited that he can’t help but herd Sam back onto the bed till he’s sitting down, propped up on his elbows. Steve gets down between his legs, and kisses one foot, then the other. 

Sam leans forward to tug at his hair. “Foot fetish?”

“Can I suck your dick?” Steve replies, hopeful. 

Sam looks at him, snorts. “Hmm, I guess,” he gestures, “you know, if it makes you so happy-“

Steve licks down the line from Sam’s hip to where his legs join, taps his thigh with his nose till Sam spreads his legs. He smells perfect, Steve thinks. Something about it is so comfortable, lets him fall into a warm, relaxed kind of arousal. Sam’s hard, the tip of his dick round and firm where it peeks out. The skin around it looks so soft. He kisses it, and Sam huffs. 

Steve’s grinning like an idiot when he sucks Sam’s dick. He loves it. He loves the way Sam tastes, the way his hips squirm when Steve presses with the flat of his tongue, groans deep when he flicks the tip of his tongue under the head. He bobs up and down a little, feels Sam getting wet on his chin. It’s so…normal. They’re both just right, exactly what they’re supposed to be. He doesn’t feel self-conscious at all. He loves it. He makes a sound not far off from a giggle, and Sam tugs hard on his hair. 

“Ok, that’s it,” Sam sighs, “up.” Steve follows Sam’s tugging till he’s eye level, and Sam rolls on top of him. 

“You happy?” Sam asks, and Steve smiles at him. “Wow, you are.” Sam stares at him for a moment. 

“Be happier if you fucked me,” Steve replies, stretching lazily. 

Sam snorts, pinches a pressure point by Steve’s thumb, hard enough to make him squirm and gasp, but not enough to make him tear up. 

“You’re so fucking cute,” Sam says, helpless. “I’m gonna fuck you so nice.” 

Steve smiles, headbutts Sam’s shoulder. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sam says, shaking his head, then stands up on slightly wobbly legs. His legs are really nice. He walks away to open a drawer. His back is really nice. His ass is perfect. 

“Your ass is _great_ ,” Steve says as he sits up, punch drunk, and when Sam turns back he has a dick and a harness in his hand. Steve stares at the dick, barely notices Sam buckling on the harness. 

When Sam makes his way back over, Steve can't help but notice that his mouth conveniently level with Sam’s dick. He leans forward to kiss the head, and when Sam doesn’t stop him he takes him in gently between his lips, sucks on the soft head, slides down the shaft. He’s getting wetter just having it in his mouth. He looks up, and Sam’s mouth is literally hanging open. 

Sam tackles Steve onto the bed, kisses him deep while his fingers work their way between Steve’s legs, rubbing gently back and forth until Steve’s dick is wet and he’s open under his fingers. 

The first steady push of fingers into Steve’s tight front hole is pure fucking bliss. He’s dying for it, shivers all over when Sam crooks his fingers, clever. He wants to come. More importantly-

“Hey,” Steve manages, petulant. “Come on, fuck me.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Sam snorts, but he pulls his fingers out, brings them to Steve’s lips. Steve licks them, snuggles forward till he’s wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist. Sam rolls until Steve is on his back, the head of his cock pressing at his hole till it penetrates, and Sam is sliding inside of him. Steve sighs happily, flexes his toes in pleasure. He doesn’t feel like a freak, humiliated, invaded. He doesn’t hate himself for what he needs. He just feels really, really good. 

Sam’s true to his word; he fucks him gently, a nice deep grind that has Steve moaning and Sam batting his fingers away from his dick when he’s jerking himself too fast, intent on drawing it out. Sam kisses and bites his throat, tells him how good he feels till Steve blushes. Sam smiles when he sees it, kisses the blush on Steve’s cheekbones. 

Steve doesn’t know how long it’s been when he feels desperate enough to come just from Sam’s dick, begs Sam to let him touch himself. Sam’s fucking him hard enough that he can hear Sam’s balls slapping against him every time he bottoms out, and he only has to jerk his cock a couple times before he’s coming around Sam, clenching down, feeling it all the way from his dick to where the head of Sam’s cock is grinding down deep into him. 

Steve cries out as the orgasm suddenly gets sharper, feels his muscles contract in waves, his spine covered in tingling sensations that move up over his scalp. He almost misses the rough movements of Sam’s hand as he jerks himself under the prosthetic, finishing inside Steve before he gets too sensitive to be fucked. Sam pulls out as gently as he can, and they lay there for a couple minutes, just breathing, too relaxed to move. 

When Steve finally looks around the room, hazy and lax from the best orgasm he’s had in decades, he sees how still Bucky is sitting in the chair in the corner. Too still. Rigid, frozen. 

Dissociated. 

Steve feels himself being jerked straight out of subspace, going from floating in a warm ocean to shaking in the icy air. Nerves coming back online after being defrosted. 

“Buck?” he calls, and Bucky looks straight through him. He sits up, slowly walks over. “Bucky-“

Bucky lunges, strikes out, and Steve’s reflexes pull him back before Sam can shout in alarm. 

Steve stays very still, makes his body language submissive, feels ridiculous nude with his thighs wet. “He’s just trying to defend himself,” he says softly to Sam, eyes not leaving Bucky. 

He’s ready to fight Bucky if he has to, but he’s not sensing it’ll come to that. Bucky spent years hiding a deep well of emotion under forced passivity, fear, learned helplessness. Sometimes he comes up from a memory pissed, ready to break bones. Most of the time, though, it’s just this. Wild swinging of the metal arm, a sharp growl- stay back, leave me alone. A wounded animal, cornered. 

He can see when Bucky comes back to the room, eyes focusing. 

“Hey,” Steve says, and Bucky finally looks at him with recognition. He feels a ripple of relief, a wave of shame. He didn’t bother to stop and check in. He let himself go so far he didn’t even think about Bucky. He’d been so goddamn selfish. “I’m sorry. You’re safe, now.” He clears his throat. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The corners of Bucky’s lips twitch. “I got turned on,” Bucky replies, flat. Then he starts laughing. It isn’t a nice sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw shit i wrote fluff instead of porn again, i'm really sorry y'all


	4. Bucky

Bucky Barnes died in a 9’ by 5’ concrete cell. He had to; someone that gentle couldn’t survive where he’d been left behind to be brutalized. 

Bucky Barnes never died; he lives in each intrusive memory, in muscle movements of dances, in that ache in his chest that nurtures the need to reach out and offer comfort. He knows so many kinds of suffering, and how much worse it is to suffer alone. 

Most days his body is something he can fade from; he’ll feed it, bathe it, wake up, do it again. He never loses his proprioception, the knowledge of the force he needs with each muscle to obtain his objective- cradle glass, dent metal. He remembers the sensation of tubes being pulled from an aching throat- his throat. Scalpels. The arm is in his spine, his brain. He’ll always have Hydra inside of him, intimate. He… it’s not tolerable, to live in this colonized body. He can’t do it. 

He does it for five more seconds, then a minute, hours, days. He fades from his body. It hurts all the time, anyhow. It rebels against the drugs shoved down his throat, years of terror, metal embedded into his bones, how his mind weeps at what his hands have done. How overwhelming his rage is. He wonders if Steve used to feel like this sometimes, when he never stopped hurting and the world told him he was worthless. If he just left himself, sometimes, so he could live. 

He loves Steve with all the care he has left in his body. He never wants to stop making him feel wanted. Having Steve sleep against him brings him the most peace he’s had for decades. This reality exists together with the fact that he can’t live in his body, and he’s not sure he ever will. 

It’s not like he hasn’t tried. He’s tried. His body keeps on functioning, and he manages to notice it when he gets hard. He jerked off in the shower once a few months back, and was overcome by a wave of disgust so strong he vomited on the floor. He can’t integrate it, can’t separate the bad from the good. Touch makes him feel, wakes up his nerves, and his memories are steeped to bitterness in pain. He can’t even begin to believe in learning not to hurt. 

His therapist asked him where he saw himself in the future, and he realized the complete and utter certainty that his future has always been death. His goal is survival, not because he’s bothered by the idea of death, but because his body no longer knows how to quit. 

Steve is looking up at him from where he’s kneeling on the floor. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and concerned. His lips are bitten dark pink, and he looks so vulnerable and sweet nude. _Hey beautiful_ , Bucky Barnes thinks. 

“I broke someone’s fingers once,” Bucky says, because he can’t stop playing the memory over and over in his mind. “I didn’t feel anything. I was just glad it wasn’t me.” 

Steve’s face twists. “It’s not your fault.” 

“It is,” Bucky says, tired. “Why do you want me here?” 

“I love you,” Steve answers, looking away. 

“I love you too,” Bucky says, “and I don’t want to hurt you like this. I don’t think I can do both.” 

Steve sticks his jaw out, Bucky can see the muscle work. “Why don’t you let me decide for myself what I want.” 

“I might never get better,” Bucky counters. “I’m never going to come by normal easy.” 

“I know,” Steve says softly. 

“You don’t think that,” Bucky shakes his head. “You think I’ll be fixed.” 

“You don’t need to be,” Steve swallows. “Nothing about you ever needed to be fixed. Trust me.” 

Steve would be better without him. Bucky is too selfish to give him up. He can’t stand that he’s kneeling naked on the floor, shivering. If he were a good man, he’d say something cruel, leave, tell Steve not to follow him. It would be hard for Steve; Bucky knows how lonely he was before, has heard how alive he’s been since he found him. But he’d get over it, eventually. 

Steve is shivering on the floor. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” Bucky gestures, and Steve shuffles forward. Bucky tugs at his hands, hauls him up into his lap. This is ok, he can do this. He feels protective, in control. He cradles Steve’s head in his hands. 

“Don’t let me hurt you,” Bucky says. He makes eye contact with Sam, who’s watching them from the bed, silent. 

Steve lays his head on Bucky’s shoulder, shakes it a little. “You don’t understand. I don’t want you normal, or fixed.” Steve huffs, takes a deep breath into his shirt. “I’m selfish. Sorry. I just don’t want you to leave.” 

Bucky kisses the top of his head. “You’re sorry for needing anything, aren’t you?” 

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yes.” 

Bucky doesn’t deserve to have Steve in his lap like this, trusting. He doesn’t ever want to hurt him, but he doesn’t trust himself. If Steve hadn’t jumped back just minutes ago when Bucky was a few decades away… 

“Hup,” Bucky says suddenly, gets one hand around Steve’s waist and the other under his ass. Steve immediately wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, ready for it when Bucky stands and walks him over to the bed. 

“Time for Sam to tell you how good you were,” Bucky says, dumping him gently onto the sheets and pushing him towards Sam. 

Steve blinks at him. Bucky wishes he could tell himself that Steve doesn’t need him, that he could leave Steve behind and not feel like he’s lost another limb. He feels Steve’s soft, warm body next to him and aches to touch him. Steve makes him want to believe in having goals that involve feeling. 

Steve reaches out to touch his right hand, tugs. Bucky stays close to him, lets Steve play with his fingers. 

“Hey,” Sam says to Steve, kisses him hello. “Shh.” He pets Steve’s hair for a minute. “Come back down, huh?” 

Steve lets Sam touch him, finally closing his eyes after a few moments. 

“That’s it, you’re being so good for me. You’re doing great. Can you do something for me?”

Steve nods, keeping his eyes closed. 

“Draw a circle on Bucky’s hand for me. Keep doing it, unless he wants you to stop.” Sam looks over at Bucky. “You’re doing great, too.”

“Steve,” Sam addresses him, “I want you to tell Bucky how you feel when you’re around him.”

Steve smiles. “I feel like I’m home.”

“Like Captain America is home?” Sam prompts, an obvious lead, but Bucky doesn’t stop him. 

Steve snorts. “Like Steve Rogers is home. Like I remember who I am.” 

Sam looks back at Bucky. “That sound like someone you’re abusing?” 

The tips of Bucky’s fingers are warm, radiating down from Steve’s circles on his palm. He doesn’t deserve to be touched like this. He’s rabid, and they won’t see it. 

“I lost my best friend, a few years back,” Sam says to Bucky. Steve has clearly heard this story. “It happened fast. I’d do anything for a chance to deal with his bullshit again.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and Sam looks away, gives the wall a wry smile. 

“You doing ok?” Sam asks Steve, and Steve nods. “That’s good. You were so good, asking for what you needed. We’re gonna figure it out, all of us.” 

Steve sighs, keeps up the circles on Bucky’s palm. Bucky can feel his heartbeat settling. He even feels tired. 

“Tell me about your friend,” Bucky says, and Sam smiles, shakes his head. 

“He was such an asshole. I never stop thinking about this one time, when he played a prank with a dead snake,” Sam starts, and Bucky lets the words wash over him. He lives in his body for five more seconds, ten more minutes, and it’s not so bad. Steve is breathing peacefully, not trying to hide how much he wants them both. Sam is in control, unselfconscious, needed. They live with each other’s bodies, and it’s not bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the last chapter was...angst? let's pretend i know what i'm doing.


	5. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hobbitdragon said: "OH GOD, BUT NOW I NEED MORE  
> HOW IS SAM DOING??? IS HE OKAY?????? IT CAN BE SO SCARY TO BE IN A POLY SITUATION LIKE THIS...  
> MY SWEET BEAUTIFUL SAM, HOW IS SAM DOING, INQUIRING MINDS NEED TO KNOW. 
> 
> *sigh* oh, all right, I did start this fic off with him then sidelined him, didn't I? that was bad. here, have this.

The next day, Sam puts the harness away. He cleans it, folds it, and tucks it under his wool socks. The wool socks are in the back, rolled tight. The moisture wicking hiker socks for his uniform are to the right, cotton in the front. He closes the drawer, looks around the room. 

Steve’s underwear goes into the hamper. He tucks the corners of his sheets in, gives the comforter a shake. Rolls up the blinds, and goes to brush his teeth. He can smell bacon in the kitchen; Steve and Bucky are already back from their run, and they left Sam to sleep today. 

Sam’s part of an old guard that taught him he didn’t need hormones or surgery to be a man. He needed discipline, respect for his elders, to be strong enough to protect the people he loved. To know how to stay cool, to control himself. 

He wouldn’t be the man he is today without what the military taught him. He’d gotten in for the propaganda- be someone you can respect! Be a part of a band of brothers! He’d thought he’d been prepared for any horror the desert could throw at him before Riley died. He looked at Bucky sometimes, and thought he was still probably naïve. 

He’d gotten into pararescue because a black Senior Master Sergeant took a lot at him and said, “Son, they say you gotta be twice as good. I imagine someone like you’s gotta be at least twice that.” They paused, let Sam sweat in his boots, ready to have his ass handed to him by DADT. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you are, huh?” The man looked down at his paperwork. “You’re a good soldier, and I’ve got a job I think you’ll be good at. Just one condition.” Sam couldn’t be any more at attention than he already was, but he didn’t breathe for a few long moments. “I don’t think I can call you Samantha. I think there’s been a mistake on these forms, am I right?” 

“Sir,” Sam said, and that was that. 

He’ll never regret the time he served. He knew just as well, after Riley died and his tour ended, that he couldn’t re-enlist. He had some shit to work on before he ended up drowning himself in a bottle. 

When he finally brought himself to admit he needed help (and that was a long ass road) and walked through the doors of the VA, he found out almost immediately that something had changed since he’d left high school. There was a group of transgender vets meeting a few times a month, and they helped him tread water till he got his head on straight. 

He found out he didn’t need hormones or surgeries to be a man, but they sure as hell helped. Plus he looked fresh as hell with the facial hair. To his surprise, his parents helped him through, drove him to surgery, made sure he took his meds. He realized later they liked him better alive. 

He gave back to the VA, once he was on his feet again. When he picked up the wings again, he was ready for that responsibility as well. 

Steve and Bucky are sitting at his kitchen table, a stack of pancakes between them that probably took a whole box of Aunt Jemima. They turn to look at him, Steve smiling, Bucky raising his eyebrows. 

“If you want some, you’ll have to make them yourself,” Bucky calls, and Sam swoops in and snatches two off the top. 

“You want them to be yours, you buy the goddamn mix,” Sam counters, and goes to get his orange juice. He kisses Steve good morning, and passes the citrus to Barnes. Like family. 

He can handle this. He’s always discovering new depths. Even the ability to love two men married to combat. Maybe he even thrives on it, a little. 

“What are we doing today, gentlemen?”


End file.
